


wolfskin

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Kidnapping, Magic, Sad, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 23:52:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hook is taken by an enemy of his past wearing the face of Emma.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry in advance...

When Killian had been a deckhand in the employ of the nefarious Black Beard, he had devised a rather successful technique to avoid penalisation following a heavy night of drinking: when the Captain had come upon him in the morning sprawled over a coil of rope or a barrel, Killian would play dead and remain motionless when the Captain shouted abuse at or kicked him in the side. The Captain would lose interest – such was the way of bullies – and Killian would get away with only a half-hearted reprimand.

Thus, Killian decided to make use of the same method when he found himself waking up on a mercilessly cold, white-tiled floor in a windowless room barely larger than a closet.

Without moving, he made an assessment of his general health and determined that, pounding head aside, his body was largely intact and he was not in any significant pain. It was a good start. What was worrisome was the absence of his hook, which he saw had been detached when he cracked open an eye ever so slightly, and the band of pressure around his ankle which he recognised as a shackle of some sort. As accustomed to kidnappings as he was, the discovery that he was chained nevertheless sent a thrill of worry through his mind: this spelt trouble.

At once, the door opened with a bang and Killian’s pulse spiked. Only with great effort did he manage to remain still, heart battering his ribcage.

The person who had opened the door was standing on the threshold. Killian could hear their breathing.

Then – “I know you’re awake.”

Killian started. Forgetting any plans of playing dead, he sprang to his feet. He knew that voice, knew it better than he knew his own.

“Swan?”

Indeed, it was Emma who stood in the doorway, straight-backed and regal with her long, fair hair tied into a ponytail. She was wearing what she had worn last time he had seen her – a grey sweater and her signature brown leather jacket.

He was relieved to see her, and his relief was only magnified when he saw that she appeared unharmed, and was free of any restraints. She was, however, holding an empty whiskey bottle in her right hand, but Killian decided not to dwell on that minor detail.

“Swan, thank goodness,” he said, and flashed her a toothy smile,” I can always trust you to save the day.”

Swan made no motion to come over and attempt to free Killian of his shackle. She did not move whatsoever, and her face was frozen in an impassive expression.

Killian’s smile faltered. “Swan?” he asked, and, after a bout of silence: “Emma?”

Emma continued to look at him blankly.

A strange feeling beginning to settle in the depth of his stomach, Killian scoured his mind for any reason why Emma would be angry at him. He could not think of any recent actions of his which would have provoked her ire. It was possible that something had transpired between them in the period of time which Killian could not remember, but he had a feeling that this was not so.

“Emma, what’s going on? Are you alright?” he decided to ask instead of feeding the worry in his heart. 

Emma remained silent, and started to swing the bottle which she held in her hand.

Killian took a hesitant step toward his partner, intoning: “Emma, we need to get out of here before whoever took me comes back. I don’t have my hook and I’m chained to the wall, but we can figure something out. Do you have your gun?”

Without warning, in a move which Killian would not have expected in a million years – not from _her_ – Emma raised her hand and smashed the bottle over his head.

He collapsed to the floor. For a few seconds, he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, pain blooming red in his head. When it started to ebb, he was made aware of the flow of blood between the fingers clutched around his scalp. His breath was laboured, hitching with every new wave of agony, and he curled up on himself where he lay on the tiles. There were shards of glass in his field of vision, tinted red.

From far away, he heard Emma shift in the doorway. His mind – the section of it which was not being seared open – could not rationalise what had just been done to him. Even as he saw it all over again: Emma raising her hand, bringing the bottle down on his head, he refused to believe it. He must have imagined it – it was possible that he had been drugged or poisoned, and his mind had warped reality somehow, made him believe that someone else was Emma, made him believe that Emma would hurt him.

She wouldn’t.

Not Emma.

Glass crunched beneath the soles of her shoes as Emma crouched in front of Killian. There was blood in his eyes so he could not see her properly, and he could not decipher the expression of her blurred face.

He did not know what to do, and could barely formulate a thought through the pain of his head. “Are you OK?” he asked her instead, and his voice was hoarse despite him not having screamed.

She did not reply, but she did lift a hand – Killian flinched before he was aware of it – and folded it over Killian’s where it was attached to the bleeding side of his head. Her touch was gentle, and he relaxed infinitesimally. Tenderly, she pulled his hand away and examined the injury: Killian felt the butterfly touches of the pads of her fingers over some of the most sensitive areas.

“This looks bad,” Emma murmured, and it was as if her voice had regained some of its former character. Hearing that familiar tone in her voice, the rest of the tension left Killian’s shoulder’s and he leaned into her touch.

As before, there was no previous notice when Emma viciously dug her nails into the open wound and dragged them through the ravaged skin. Killian howled – he could not help it – and scrambled back, away from Emma and into the corner of the room, shielding his head with his hand and his stump even as his body was shaking from the pain.

He was only dimly aware that Emma had risen and once again positioned herself in the doorway, one shoulder leaning on the frame, with her arms folded. He felt her gaze rest upon him as he struggled to compose himself. Finally, he managed to prop himself against the wall, but kept a hand covering his head and decided to keep it there continually.

“What’s going on, Emma?” Killian asked warily. “Have I done something?”

Emma cocked her head as if his question puzzled her. Now that the blood on his face had dried and his vision somewhat cleared, Killian could see the blankness of her eyes.

“Emma.” Killian swallowed, and closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re starting to scare me.”

He had not expected her to reply - if her previous silence was anything to go by - but when she did speak, he wished that she had not.

“I hate you, Killian,” Emma said matter-of-factly, the gravity of the words coming out of her mouth amplified by the lack of intonation in her voice.

Killian could not have had a worse surprise if she had hit him again. “W-what?” he stammered.

_Friday,_ he thought, desperate. Friday was the last time that he remembered that they had been together, bodies intertwined on the couch as Emma introduced him to the James Bond film series. He remembered her hands in his hair, her nose pressed against his. _I love you._

His insides clenched at the memory.

He knew that he had been taken during the evening of Saturday, so it could be no later than Sunday. What could have possibly happened between Friday and Sunday that Emma was so ready to dismiss what they had struggled to put together for so long?  

“Emma-” he began, voice breaking, but Emma interrupted him sharply:

“Shut up! I can’t stand your pathetic whinging. You disgust me.”

Again, there was no passion behind her words, but they caused something to rupture inside Killian regardless. He felt all warmth and colour leave his face.

“Emma,” he whispered, and realized that he was digging his own nails into his scalp. Fresh blood flowed down his face and neck, staining the edge of his collar red. He wondered how much blood the leather had soaked up over the years.

“I said SHUT UP!” Emma screamed and tore away from the doorway to speedily advance on him. She stopped just short of where he sat huddled and loomed over him menacingly.

Killian looked up at her, still hopeful, still clinging onto the possibility that all this was a fabrication of his drug-addled, concussed mind. This couldn’t be real, _shouldn’t_ be real.

Emma crouched down before him again, and braced her elbows on her knees. “How could I love a pirate?” she sneered, but her eyes were empty. “Do you think that all that you have done can be forgiven? Do you think that you deserve a happy ending?”

Killian was shaking his head without fully realizing what it was that he was doing. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

“You destroyed my life. That’s why I hate you,” Emma hissed into his face.

Killian kept shaking his head. “Emma, I’m – I’m sorry. I can’t – I’m sorry. You’re right – I can’t possibly ask for forgiveness, and I know I certainly don’t deserve a happy ending.” His breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the burn of tears behind his eyelids. “Oh, God – Emma, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

Emma’s right hand suddenly shot forward and she gripped Killian by the hair, pulling his head backward. The pain brought on by her hold caused the tears in his eyes to spill over.

“What good is your apology to me?” she spat at him, then used her left hand to seize his throat. Killian gasped and wheezed as she applied ever more pressure to his windpipe until he was choking. Instinctually, he grabbed her wrist with his hand and tried to push it off, but her grip was iron and he did not want to hurt her by clawing at her skin. Spots danced before his eyes as seconds passed and she did not relent.

In the very final few moments, she finally let go of both his throat and his hair and backhanded him viciously, sending him flying over the floor. He lay on the tiles in a heap, and sucked in as much air as he could through his bruised throat. His breathing sounded guttural, and with every exhale, a whistling noise could be heard in the silence between them.

Emma snarled, as if incited by Killian’s vulnerability, and aimed a kick at his stomach, stealing from him the air he had so struggled to fill his burning lungs with.

“Please,” he wheezed, raising his stump as he was clutching his stomach with his hand.

“Please, what?” Emma snapped, baring her teeth in a humourless smile, “This is exactly what you deserve, pirate. Don’t pretend that this isn’t so.”

_Pirate._ Had Emma ever called him pirate before? She had simply called him _Hook_ before, then, eventually: _Killian._

Never _pirate_.

Killian had fallen into a nightmare which saw no end. Closing his eyes made no difference: she would still be there, and the shards of glass painted in his blood would still be lying on the floor, and he would still hear her voice in his head: _I hate you._

“I do,” he said, and his voice was paper thin, “deserve this.”

She did not say anything after that. He did not even notice that she had left until he heard the door clicking shut. A few seconds passed, and then the lights were turned off, and he lay in the dark with no energy to do anything but breathe.

* * *

 The glass shards were gone when the lights were turned on again. He had not even been aware that he had been asleep, and only noticed in that the pain had changed shape, become duller and more indistinguishable. Blood had coagulated beneath his hair, and crusted on his face, and his throat was sensitive to his touch. The strain on his body from lying on the hard floor for too long had begun to make itself felt, as well.

All the physical pains were negligible compared to the storm in his head, however. Matters had only just settled in his life: Emma had been the best thing to happen to him, and he had been happy with her, and though he had known from experience that happiness rarely lasted, with Emma, he had allowed himself to believe. Now, his carefully constructed world had been destroyed, and there were so many pieces of it that he did not think he would ever be able to put them back together, even if he somehow escaped this cell.

Emma – real or not – had shattered his heart and the shatters had splintered and the splinters had punctured his mind. All the while, it was not himself he felt sorry for, but all the people he had wronged, the people whose hearts _he_ had broken, whose lives _he_ had left ruined.

And it was a truth, universally acknowledged, that he had ruined Emma’s life, as well.

He closed his eyes, and did not open them until the door opened.

He had hoped that it would not be Emma again, that it was going to be some other anonymous captor. His usual mechanisms of defence – sarcasm layered with charm layered with more sarcasm – did not work with Emma. Emma could deconstruct any of his defences with barely a word.

He did not need to see her to know that it was Emma who entered the room. He had spent what seemed like a lifetime with her, learning all her mannerisms, memorising her hands, the way that she held a pen between her fingers, and the lines crisscrossing her palms. He had memorised her hair, and the way that her eyes looked when she was squinting in bright sunlight, and memorised her cheeks when they glistened with tears. He had memorised her smiles, and her frowns, and her tucking her hair behind her ear, memorised the history written in the topography of her skin. Finally, he had memorised his own image in the black of her pupils, and would forever drown in the memory of her eyes. Whatever happened in this cell, and whatever happened afterward, he would die with those memories safely stored in the secret-most place of his mind.

He found comfort in that knowledge as Emma braced her shoulder against the doorframe again. There was not much behind her that he could see of the corridor: a continuation of the white walls already prevalent in the room he was confined to, but no more than that. Even if he found a way to slip out of the shackle on his ankle, which, although it was attached above his boot, was almost tight enough to cut off circulation in his foot, he would have little idea of how to get out of this place.

Emma seemed to understand where his thoughts had strayed: “Don’t think you’re getting out of here anytime soon. Not until you’ve received your punishment in full.”

His stiff joints creaked as he sat up against the wall. “Punishment?” he asked. He had not spoken in a couple of hours, and his voice sounded like he had swallowed gravel. It was not something he could clear away with a cough, either: he was afraid that the choking had bruised his throat quite badly.    

“ _Punishment?_ ” Emma mocked tonelessly. “Yes – you’re going to be punished. Don’t act so put out – this is a long time coming.”

It certainly was. Killian did not argue with her, yet his body was tense and his heart was racing all the same.

She took a step toward him, and Killian poorly supressed his flinch. He noticed then that she was carrying a bag with metal tools of some kind clinking softly inside. His heart sank.

She knelt before him and upended the bag on the floor. He made no move to grab any of the objects – because he was afraid of Emma, because he did not want to hurt her, because he, deep down, felt that he deserved to suffer. There were a million reasons for his inaction. Yet watching Emma pick up a propane blowtorch and what looked very much like a branding iron sent his heart into a rabid frenzy. He found himself scrabbling backward, but the wall was there to block his flight.

Emma calmly took hold of his hand and pulled it toward herself. Killian kept his fingers firmly clenched in a fist. He would not fight back – but he could not willingly submit to pain of such magnitude.

Calm unbroken, Emma picked up another tool – a hammer, of which Killian caught a fleeting glimpse – braced Killian’s fist against the floor and brought it down over his fingers before he had a chance to pull his hand back.

From personal experience, Killian knew how sensitive the hand was with its complex system of nerves and ligaments, and how pain tended to be amplified in that particular area of the body. The pain he experienced at the hands of Emma was however nothing he had felt before, and it floored him completely. He was only aware that he had been making a noise, a high-pitched animalistic, panicked sound, much later, when his fingers had unfolded in the morbid mimicry of a blooming lotus.

There was a hiss and Killian looked up at Emma – blurred by the tears in his eyes – to see her heating the brand with the blowtorch.

“You’re a pirate,” said Emma emotionlessly. The blue flame of the blowtorch was reflected in her eyes. “You should be branded as one.”

“‘mma,” Killian managed to utter, aware that he was slurring his words badly,” ‘ts OK. ‘ts OK.” He could not say anything else, and he knew that she would not understand what he wanted to say, but he still felt it was important to mention nonetheless. That he would always forgive her, that he could never possibly hold anything against her. Not even this.  

There was no resistance on the part of Killian when Emma bent his broken fingers further apart. He could not move even if he had wanted to: violent tremors had seized his body, and his bones felt liquefied. He wondered numbly if his hand had been rendered useless. A pirate with one hand was already no good for anything, but a pirate without any was less than useless.

With the same diligence which she had displayed before, Emma pressed the glowing brand over his palm. Killian smelt the burning flesh before he felt the searing agony. His back arched as he tried, desperately, to alleviate the pain in any which way that he could. Delirium threatened to overwhelm him as he lay writhing on the floor, crying only because he could not scream.

Emma did not hurt him further. But she came over to him and lowered herself down on his body, pinning him to the floor. Her face – close enough now that Killian could see it properly – was masked by indifference, but the effort of torture had caused her to break out in a sweat, wet strands of blonde hair sticking to her forehead.

Killian’s eyes were rolling back in his head when she caressed his cheek. She said something to him but he could not hear her words, only saw that her mouth moved.

Then she kissed him. It was a peck, gentle as they come, and yet Killian turned his head and vomited.

Disgusted, Emma jumped up and away from him, making sure to stay clear from the growing puddle on the floor.

When Killian had finished heaving and lay gasping on the floor, tears streaming down his face, she aimed a kick at his ribs in anger for his ineptitude. He curled up on himself again, making himself smaller, but did not make a sound.

He must have passed out for a moment, because the next thing he was aware of was that the sick had been cleaned, and that there was a glass of water next to his head. He watched condensation build on the outside of the glass for a moment, until he reached out his shaking hand and wrapped his stiffening fingers around it. The coolness was almost worth the pain of moving his broken bones. He realized quickly that he would not be able to pick the glass up, though. Instead, he hung his head over the top of the glass, put his lips to the edge and sucked the water in like he used to do when he was younger. It was painful to swallow, and he only managed to drink half of the glass before he had to shove it aside, gasping. There was something wrong with his lungs.

At the very least, he had been allowed some respite from further torture. The last act of Emma’s – to kiss him – had completely unhinged him. The strangeness of it in combination with the insurmountable pain had caused him to be sick. It was something that he never thought would ever happen: that Emma’s touch would repel him. Yet here he was, with something inside of him broken.

He had no energy to sit up properly, so he stared at his hand where it lay palm-up on the floor. His fingers had swelled and filled with blood, but worse yet was the brand on his palm which continued to throb with every beat of his pulse. The deep indentations of the letter ‘P’, pink, and scabbing over at the edges, would forever bring him back to the moment when Emma had put the iron to his hand.

It made him want to die.

It was not long before Emma was back. He saw the door open in the periphery of his vision, but could not move his heavy head.

Emma’s boots skidded to a halt a few steps in front of him. He stared at the scuffed leather of her soles and held his breath.

“You don’t seem to appreciate the water I’d left for you,” Emma stated, and there was an edge of steel to her voice. She suddenly lashed out and kicked the half-empty glass with such ferocity that it shattered upon impact with her boot. Water and glass rained down on Killian, whose eyes winced shut.

Emma proceeded to grab him by the scruff and pull him up. He groaned, but could do nothing to fend her off.

“You ungrateful piece of filth!” She shook him, and he felt nausea creep back up his throat.

Emma must have sensed something, because she abruptly let go of him and let him collapse to the floor. His head rebounded off the tiles, waking the old pain of his injury.

“You’re no use to me like this,” Emma muttered, more to herself than to Killian by the sound of it. He listened to her leave while he waited for the fog in his head to clear.

She returned within a couple of minutes. His eyes were closed so she pushed down on his injured hand with her heel, and he threw them open, mouth twisted in a noiseless howl. She dangled something in front of his face, something which evaded his focus until she held it still before his eyes: a syringe.

Given his origins in a fairy-tale facsimile of 19th century Britain, Killian had little previous experience with syringes and medical equipment in general. He could not remember a single time in his youth when he had been to the doctor’s. In Storybrook, however, he had been to the hospital a few times too many, and so come to associate syringes and needles with medicine and morphine.   
Something told him that Emma had not brought him morphine, though, and the sight of the dangerous-looking needle made him squirm. She did not seem to care – she grabbed his hand again, and, ignoring his protests and his small noises of hurt, plunged the needle into one of the most prominent veins of the back of his hand.

Within a couple of seconds, every of his nerves was alight. His muscles seized and relaxed, and his eyes opened as wide as they would go. With renewed energy, he pulled himself off the ground and stood, breathing heavily, in front of Emma. His heart was beating so hard against his bruised ribs that he thought that it would leave his chest entirely.

“Adrenaline,” Emma explained, and tucked the empty syringe into the pocket of her jacket.

Her voice seemed amplified in Killian’s ears, and he covered them to block it out.

“Why?” he asked, so high-strung that it was almost a pain of its own.

Emma cocked an eyebrow. “A broken toy is not very interesting to play with.”

Cold sweat had begun to pour down Killian’s back – he felt his shirt and his leather jacket stick to his skin. He would have peeled it off but with his hand in the state which it was in, he knew that such a feat was nigh on impossible. He suddenly remembered that, before all this, Emma had helped him dress from time to time – she would hold the two sides of his shirt together while he buttoned them with one hand. When he was finished, he would hook his hook around the back of her neck and pull her to him and kiss her for as long as she would permit him to kiss her.

A sharp slap which whipped his head to the side abruptly brought him back to reality. He blinked, and swayed a little where he stood.

Mild irritation was apparent on Emma’s face. “I don’t appreciate you zoning out while I’m talking. It’s impolite.”

“… sorry,” Killian mumbled. He felt the adrenaline beginning to wear off, and it was only through sheer willpower that he managed to remain on his feet.

“Get on your knees,” she ordered after a bout of silence. Her voice did not allow any disobedience.

When Killian did not move quick enough for her liking, she backhanded him. He lost his balance and hit the floor hard with his knees, the shock reverberating through his bones.

She crouched down until their faces were level. He could not find anything familiar in her eyes, and so looked away.  

“Do you still love me?” she asked, grabbing his chin and redirecting her gaze to her face. Her fingers dug cruelly into his skin, into the day-old stubble which covered the lower half of his face. That was something else that Emma had helped him with – shaving. She had always been mindful, always tender. Always kissed his mouth when he had washed his face clean.

“Yes,” he let out, without really having to think about it.

“I don’t,” she stated coldly,” I never have.”

Killian’s gaze wavered. “But…”

“There are no caveats,” Emma hissed, and slapped him again. “I’m telling you the truth. I never loved you. I only pretended to. All of it was play-acting. And trust me when I tell you that I hated every minute of it. You cannot imagine the degradation of displaying affection for a creature as foul as you.”

The secret sanctuary of memories which Killian had maintained so meticulously started to crumble. He desperately tried to keep it intact, but with every further word of Emma’s she was effectively breaking it down.

“Why?” He was ashamed of how small his voice sounded, was ashamed of his own weakness.

“Think about it,” Emma said softly,” has anyone ever loved you? Your father abandoned you. Your brother lied to you.” She leaned closer, and whispered in his ear: “Your mother died so she would not have to see what disgrace she had given birth to.”

It was the nadir – the rest of Emma’s words were drowned out by the white noise in Killian’s head. In that very moment, he lost everything. He lost the comfort which Emma’s voice had always signified to him. He lost all hope that he would ever be happy again. He knew enough of drowning to know that this was him inhaling water in his last few minutes of life.

In a haze, he watched as Emma raised a hand and hit him again, but he did not feel his head hit the tiles, only felt the coolness of them on his cheek.

Emma put her face close to his – he was aware of that. He saw his own reflection in her wide pupils, like he had seen so many times before, only this time his own eyes exuded the same blankness as hers did now.

He could not really feel any pain anymore. He could not feel anything at all.

“Good,” mused Emma, as if replying to a question which he had not heard, “This is where you belong. I’m happy you’ve realized it yourself.”

She left him like that, with her words echoing in the silence around him. The lights were turned off, and he was plunged into darkness.

Though it made no difference, he closed his eyes.

And waited for the end.

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**


End file.
